


Don't Wanna Be Perfect (Just Alright)

by AestuumMaris



Series: Look Away [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Aftermath of Suicide Attempt, Alfred is The World's Greatest Granddad, Batfam Week, Bruce tries to be a good dad, Dick tries to be a Good Brother, Dissociation/Derealization, Do it For the Angst, Gen, He's Out of Practice, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Inspired By RHATO Rebirth But Set Post Crisis/UTRH, It's Not Graphic Violence but It's not Fade to Black Style Either, Jason is suffering, Kill the Joker 2k17, Suicide Attempt, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:19:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AestuumMaris/pseuds/AestuumMaris
Summary: A haze of green and red colours his vision.It’s been one of those nights.





	Don't Wanna Be Perfect (Just Alright)

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags. This was inspired by the fact that Jason, in canon, (Paricularly RHATO Rebirth) is not exactly enthused about being alive, so it is potentially triggering and deals with an attempted suicide and the aftermath thereof. Also a murder which is not super graphic but not glossed over either.  
> This is for Batfam week 2017. I'm woefully late, but I have arrived!

A haze of green and red colours his vision.

It’s been one of those nights.

He failed to stop a murder, and evidence for one of his biggest sexual assault cases was ‘lost’ accidentally-on-purpose. He didn’t even get to deal with either scumbags because friggin Batman showed up and brought his bad attitude with him.

Jason doesn’t even remember how it started, just that Bruce met up with him on patrol, clearly itching for a fight, and now they’re here, snarling at each other about stuff that doesn’t even matter.

“Except I’m not really nineteen, yet, am I? Because I was _dead_ for six months.” Just a boy inside a man. Not even legally an adult, really, because he’s legally dead. “I died at _fifteen_ , Batman, and then I spent a year dead and catatonic.”

“And the following years learning how to murder.” Batman doesn’t even sound angry, just hard and unyielding. The words are rote. The scene is familiar.

And Jason—

Jason is so tired.

“Learning to do what needs to be done.”  His words aren’t cold or furious. They’re just true. He fires his grapnel and leaves.

Batman doesn’t follow.

Why would he?

Jason goes the next few hours cleaning up the streets—he stops no less than four muggings, two rapes, and one very foolish attempt at dealing to a kid.

You'd think they’d take the hint after the first forty busted heads, he muses over the body.

A crazed laugh interrupts his thoughts and he freezes, metal and blood flashing before his eyes, and he takes a few minutes to swallow back the panic. It's not the Joker. It’s _not._ It's just the regular craziness of Gotham. He pointedly cleans off his gloves before heading up to the roof.

He checks on the source of the laugh.

It’s nothing. A junkie. Just like he thought; still, Jason feels relief coursing through him.

It feels like pain.

His helmet is suddenly constricting instead of comforting, and Jason rips it off, breathing in the filthy, unfiltered, familiar Gotham air.

He leans against the wall, trying to get his head back on straight, shaking off the phantom of his murderer.

Dick sees him, one hand pushing against a wall, and the other gripping his hair, and swings over. “Hood? What’s wrong?”

Jason’s head shoots up—and that’s not like him, he should have seen Dick coming—

“Aww, don’t tell me you were worried about the little broken bird, were you?” His grin is wide and nasty. _He looks like the Joker_ rings through Dick’s mind, and he wants to throw up. “Talk about ‘too little, too late.’”

Dick rears back like he’s been slapped. “You aren’t broken, Jason, you’re not. You’re just—”

“I _am_ broken, dipshit. Don't give me that “bruised and bent” garbage now. I'm not saying it's irreparable or anything but I. Am. Broken. I _died_. That's about as broken as it gets. You don't heal from that.”

“You did.” The words are desperate.

Jason smiles, and it's cruel, and painful. “Please, Nightwing.” He spreads his arms. “Do I look healed to you?” He doesn’t wait for a response before walking away.

Dick fears how furious Jason is. That’s his little brother, the first, and Jason deserves better than this. Dick just wishes he knew how to help him.

Jason’s not the villain he was a year ago, but he’s not the hero he was as a child, and Dick doesn’t know how to deal with the angry, vicious man who bears his brother’s name.

He just hopes he can figure something out soon.

As it is, he has patrol to go on, and after fighting with Bruce earlier over Tim being benched, he’s really got no desire to have any other confrontations.

Dick’s almost finished patrol when his comm activates.

He considers ignoring it. He doesn’t want to talk to Batman.

But if it’s important, he’ll never forgive himself.

He opens the channel. “What.”

“Arkham breakout.” Batman barks.

His veins turn to ice. “Who’s out, Batman?”

“Jones, Day, Nygma. Joker.”

Dick curses. “I’m on my way.”

They hang up. Dick races to Arkham as fast as he can, all other thoughts placed on the backburner.

That was a mistake.

 

The Joker.

Free.

 _Again_.

This! _This_ is why Batman is a bandaid, useless on the gaping wound of Gotham.

This is why Jason is necessary.

He hates himself, sometimes, he really does, and he hates this life, and he hates the flaming wreck of relationships that trail behind him, but Gotham needs him. He’s the only one who’s doing what needs to be done, and he _can’t_ just stop, not even if stopping is what he wants most in the world.

But what he wants even more?

The Joker’s head.

Jason adjusts the Red Hood. It’ll be a race to the finish.

It’s time for the Joker’s past to catch up to him.

He finds him, of course he does. Jason’s got a network, and an ear to the ground besides, and his contacts are more than willing to talk—and if they aren’t? Well, they are when there’s a gun pressed between their eyes.

As Jason approaches the warehouse where the Joker’s, predictably, holed up, preparing for whatever nasty scheme he’s got up his sleeves, Jason remembers the last few times this happened.

He had the Joker, tied up, soaked in kerosene. He had the lighter. And he didn’t do it, because he wanted Bruce to do it.

And then he had him tied up _again_ , gun trained on his head, and Bruce didn’t do it. Didn’t bother to keep more kids from dying needlessly at that monster’s hands. Didn’t care enough to avenge Jason.

The Joker’s life is _not_ more important than Jason’s death, it doesn’t mean more, and Jason is not dying again without seeing that piece of trash in pieces.

He’s not waiting for Bruce anymore.

 _Vengeance is mine._   _I will repay._

 

The Joker’s minions are, as always, easy to take down. He’s cleared a path through them in no time, fast enough to catch the Joker in the middle of his escape attempt.

Jason shoots out the tires of the garishly decorated purple and green bike. It’s decorated with horrifying smiley faces dripping blood, and, of course, the “ha ha ha” motif.

Predictable. Jason shakes his head. Batman always acts like the Joker is some kind of unforeseeable mad genius. He doesn’t get it. The Joker’s only unpredictable to Batman because Batman is incapable of relating, no matter what “one bad day” nonsense the two of them spout.

Jason? Jason’s nothing like the Joker, but he knows what insanity is, and he knows what murder is, and he knows what the Joker will do because it’s what the Joker _always_ does.

Step 1. Break out of jail. Step 2. Shock the world (to the Joker, Batman is the world ) with murder. Step 3. Taunt Batman. Rinse and repeat until caught. His individual acts of terror? Sure, those are hard to predict, but at the Joker’s base, he’s got a routine like anyone else.

Batman always has to go through all the steps.

Jason will make sure it stops at step one.

He’s had _enough_. No more playing by the rules to Batman’s game.

The Joker is cackling, on his feet already. Red Hood stalks closer, predatory. He tunes out the Joker’s high, grating voice. He ignores the unnecessary details of their surroundings.

The world has narrowed to Red Hood and Red Hood, murderer and murdered, prey and predator.

Joker thinks he’s the predator.

Jason grins beneath the helmet. He couldn’t be more wrong.

The Joker lives on misdirection. But, again, he’s predictable. Jason avoids the acid spray, the joy buzzer, the spike dropping from the ceiling and the blades coming up from the floor, focused entirely on the Joker.

He brings up his gun.

Bang.

The Joker’s hand is gone.

Bang.

Left ankle.

Bang.

The Joker is on the ground. Still laughing.

“Look at you,” the Joker grins. “Red Hood. I bet Batsy’s not too happy with you, huh? Uncle J’s little successor.”

Jason snorts.

“Go on, birdboy,” Joker goads, “kill me. Show me exactly what I made out in Ethiopia.”

Jason rolls his eyes, reloads his gun. “No, see—I don’t care if you think you’ve won.” He leans down, gets in close. “I’m not Batman. I don’t care how satisfied you feel going to the grave—as long as you get there. As long as it _hurts_ on the way there.” Bang. Two shattered kneecaps.

The Joker’s caught somewhere between laughing and screaming, and Jason doesn’t know if he wants it to stop or if it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

“You haven’t won either, hoodie,” the Joker gasps. “You think he’ll ever take you back? That this’ll fix you?” His crazy eyes land on the Hood. His shrieking giggles rise in pitch, his eyes start darting around, as scattered as his dying thoughts. “You’re never gonna be his golden boy, you’re never gonna have peace, you’re never even gonna be able to sleep, kiddo! _You’re welcome_!”

The Joker’s cackles fade into the background. Jason adjusts his grip on the gun. His eyes narrow. Shoulders back.

None of this is news to Jason.

Joker’s predictable; Jason’s not Batman and that’s where he made his mistake. Jason can’t be manipulated by Joker.

“You’re right,” Jason announces, enjoying the way the Joker’s eyes widen even more, the stutter in the laugh. “I'm not ever gonna be alright again. Forget daddy’s golden boy, asshole—I'm not even the black sheep. I'm a vengeful spirit, come back to right wrongs.” He’s been doing that. It’s not enough. He just needs to...rest. “Time to put you to rights.”

His gun hovers in front of the Joker’s eyes.

“Bang.”

He doesn’t hear the gunshot. He doesn’t feel the Wingding slicing over his hand, the batarang cutting open his cheek, once again too little too late.

All he feels is the sense of completion, the peace that washes over him. This...this is the whole point of his life. He drops to his knees.

He’s finally _at peace_.

He _did it._

It’s _enough._

The last time Jason felt like this, he was fifteen and fit under Bruce’s cape. Now, he’s nineteen (ish) and he’s as big as Bruce and wouldn’t be welcome there anyway, but it doesn’t matter because the Joker.

Is finally.

Gone.

He doesn’t fight back as Batman pummels him, as Nightwing checks to see if the Joker is dead—really dead, _finally_ dead. Jason doesn’t move. He knows he succeeded.

There’s shouting in his ears, and he doesn’t register it. The punches stop flying. The words don’t. It doesn’t matter.

He blinks and suddenly he’s back in his safe house. His brow furrows. How did he get here?

He tries, but he can’t remember anything other than the Joker, dead.

He looks at his gun.

He did it.

He relieved the world of a weapon of mass destruction, a single man with a kill count of almost a thousand people.

And Jason...

Jason avenged them all.

The numbness that’s been fogging up his mind creeps over his whole body, and he feels like he’s been wrapped in cotton. Jason can’t kill every rapist, everyone who hurts kids, he can’t get rid of all the evil in the world. But...he just got rid of the worst evil in the world.

He. He’s done. He’s done it, and he’s tired, and he did what he came back to do. So why hasn’t he faded away yet?

That’s what ghosts do, isn’t it?

They...they fade once they’re done.

The fog clears a little. Jason’s not a ghost, he knows that, but he also remembers that his life’s work has been accomplished, and what’s life without purpose?

Jason grimaces and stares at the gun in his hand. He looks up, and he’s sitting at his dining room table.

Losing time. Huh. Maybe he is fading.

 

Batman burns through Gotham, fury in every movement. Nightwing has long since left him; he returned to check on Tim while Batman tracks down the Red Hood.

He checks the closest safehouse with low expectations. Jason’s an excellent tactician; it’s unlikely that after such an incident he’d be so easy to find.

So Batman is absolutely shocked when he enters the house and sees Jason slouched over at his kitchen table.

The shock turns to anger and he flings a batarang above Jason’s head. A warning.

Jason doesn’t react. He’s fixated on the gun is hand.

The gun.

Pointing.

At.

Himself.

Bruce can move faster than almost every other non-meta on the planet. It doesn’t feel like it as he watches Jason release the safety; he feels like he’s wading through molasses, struggling to reach the boy before...

He makes it in time, kicking gun, hand, and head all at once. The gun goes off, shooting a hole in the wall; at least it isn’t Jason.

“What are you doing?” He growls. He rounds on Jason, staring at him from across the table.

Jason barely lifts his head. “It’s enough,” he mutters. “It’s enough, it’s enough, I’m done, I did it, he’s dead, I did it.” He devolves into unintelligible muttering.

Batman slams a fist on the table. Jason looks up slowly. Batman startles.

He looks half dead; bruised, bloody, and sapped of energy.

“What were you doing with the _gun_?”

Jason shakes his head, just a little, like he’s confused. “I...I _did_ it. I’m done.”

Batman inhales sharply...what...

“I’m not necessary anymore.”

“Don’t say that,” he growls.

“But,” Jason says, disoriented and bleary eyed, “you want me dead, too.”

Bruce draws back, the breath forced out of his lungs like he’s been punched. “ _No_ ,” he chokes, “how could you _think_ that?”

Jason doesn’t answer, but his hands fly up to a jagged line of scar tissue snaking across his throat. “S’ okay,” he mumbles, hands falling away, eyes closing, “I get it. S’ not a big deal. So did...Willis and...Sheila...”

Bruce draws back sharply, horrified.

To be classified with—with _them_ , with the people who abused him, with a man who beat Bruce’s boy and the woman who caused his death—it’s unthinkable. It’s heartbreaking and terrifying, to think he’s fallen so low in his son’s eyes.

But it’s not as terrifying as the words “not a big deal.”

Bruce stares at Jason, slumped over in his chair, listless, staring right back.

How can his son think his death would be meaningless? That it’s _normal_ for his parents to want him dead?

How can he think _Bruce_ wants him dead?

His eyes trail back over to the scar— _t_ _he batarang scar_ —on Jason’s throat, the split lip, black eyes, obviously fractured cheekbone, and bile rises in his throat, burning him with his own failures.

He clenches his fists.

Jason flinches at the sight—one more devastating sign of just how little lucidity is left in him right now—throwing his weight back instinctively, fear in his eyes, _fear of Bruce_ —but it’s too much, too fast, and the chair tips over. Bruce’s watches almost in slow motion as Jason topples back, the chair hitting the ground and Jason’s skull bouncing off the tiles with a crack.

Bruce is by his side in a second, checking for damage.

He pulls back. This is unacceptable.

This can’t go on any longer.

He’s going to fix this.

 

Jason opens his eyes in the batcave.

 _So, hell, then_ , he decides. He’s not exactly surprised.

Then he sees the EKG, beeping steadily—or somewhat less than steadily, but at least it’s a strong beat—along.

 _Now_ he’s surprised.

And angry. Now that his head is clearer, he doesn’t really want to die.

Even if he never really _wants_ to be alive, he went through too much—death, resurrection, making something of himself, making a difference in this awful world—to give it up so easily.

But it would have been better than this, waking up restrained in the house of his enemies.

He grits his teeth and prepares for Batman’s lectures and threats, steels himself to be able to fight back even though Batman has all the power; Jason’s tied down, Bruce is in his home court. He’s got no options.

Batman appears from the shadows, mouth pressed into a flat line. Jason sighs. _Here we go_.

Why should Jason have to change, have to beg for a place in this—this army? All that ties him to them is a memory, a vow, both forsaken. He doesn’t owe them anything. They don’t owe him anything.

“Why won’t you just let me _go_?” The words slip out without his permission, but he’s glad for it.

They say the best defense is a good offense.

Bruce stands, cowl off. His face is like granite. “This is your home,” he says, as if Jason was talking about physical locations. And as irrelevant as the words are, it should still have been a declaration of welcoming, the father rejoicing to see the prodigal son home. Instead the words are pained, like a fact Bruce wishes wasn’t true—if Bruce ever gives himself to idle wishes. The next words are doubly grating. “I love you.” The lack of feeling in his voice is like a slap in the face, worse than if Bruce had renounced him.

Jason flinches. “‘I love you,’” he echoes, snarling. “‘Is that a fact? Or a weapon?’”

Bruce’s face hardens further, impassive, blank. “You’ll be kept here for monitoring for the next few days,” he says, turning to walk away.

“And after that?” Jason yells after him. “What’s it to be, Bruce, Arkham or Blackgate?”

Bruce turns. “You’ll be taken care of,” he says cryptically, then swirls his cape like a drama queen and leaves the medbay.

Jason slams his head back onto the pillow. He grits his teeth. Tears fill his eyes, before they land on the IV feeding fluids into his body. Jason yanks it out, shuddering in disgust.

This is unacceptable.

The restraints are bat-grade, impossible to escape.

Or, well.

They were meant to be.

But Jason didn’t waste his time with the League of Assassins, and he has tricks up his sleeve even Batman doesn’t know.

He’s out of his restraints in short order and then he _runs_. He has no idea how much time he has, and unless Batman was—

“And where do you think _you’re_ going, little Wing?”

Fucking hell.

“None of your business, asshole,” Jason snaps, fully preparing to square up and deck Nightwing.

Unfortunately, he seems to be aware of Jason’s resolve, and quickly wrestles Jason’s arms behind his back. “Hey,” he says soothingly, “it’s okay. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

“Damn right I’m safe,” Jason spits, yanking his arms forward, “no thanks to _any_ of you.”

Dick’s movements don’t stutter, but the raw pain on his face tells Jason that he hit his mark.

But so does Dick, and Jason watches as a syringe descends on his neck before the world fades to black mid-snarl.

When he next wakes up, he’s strapped down head to toe, and the walls are closing in as soon as he opens his eyes. He slams them shut again, trying to regulate his breathing. _It’s not real. It’s not real. I’m not in a coffin, I’m in the batcave. I’ve got plenty of air. I’m okay. I am_ okay _._

He breathes deeply, sucking in air, before he dares to open his eyes again. His gut is still churning, but the walls are staying firmly where they belong.

“Jason.” Bruce’s disembodied voice comes from behind him, and he can’t even turn his head to see him.

Jason’s nostrils flare, and he tries to pull against the restraints. He fails, and feels his upper lip curl in a sneer. “Yes, daddy-dearest?”

The silence is dark and oppressive, like everything else in this cave. Dick enters his line of sight from the left, hands held up in a pseudo-surrender, playing peacekeeper. Jason has to hold in a snort at the thought. What a fun little role-reversal.

“We aren’t going to keep you here against your will, Jason.”

Jason can’t so much as twitch his fingers, but he feels that his skeptical expression and somewhat exaggerated eye roll make his point well enough.

Dick smiles and inclines his head. “We’re gonna let you go, I swear.”

“Go where, exactly? Straight to Arkham?”

“No! No, Jason, I promise, you’ll be free to go. We just...we had to talk to you first.”

“We?” Jason raises his eyebrows. “Looks like only one of you is doing the talking.”

Dick darts a quick, disapproving glance over Jason’s shoulder, then twists his grimace into a pale attempt at a smile. “Yeah. What else is new, right?”

Jason stares him down. He’s not an idiot. He’s not about to get taken in by Dick trying to give them a common enemy to bond against. He knows very well who is allied in this situation, and he knows that he has no allies here. He never has.

Dick chews on his lip, thinking over what he’s going to say. Like hell is he gonna say something that will drive Jason away. He’s okay taking his time.

Unfortunately, tall, dark, and brooding is not. Bruce stalks around to face Jason head on, evidently forgetting _everything_ they discussed.

“You’re staying here until we know that you won’t hurt yourself again.”

Dick hears Jason’s teeth grind from five feet away. “Excuse me?” He asks, his voice low and threatening. Dick groans quietly, watching Bruce draw himself up to his most intimidating Bat pose, gearing up for battle.

“You’re on suicide watch, Jay,” Dick interrupts.

“No.”

“What?”

“Are you _deaf_?” Jason snarls. “I don’t need you to fucking babysit me. Why the fuck do you even care, old man?” And, whoops, it sounds more vulnerable than he was trying for, but he keeps his accusatory stare—Bruce isn’t exactly emotionally literate, so he might let it pass.

And he does. “You are my _son_ ,” he thunders.

“I was your son last time,” Jason hisses. “It didn’t matter then.”

“Joker is dead, Jason,” Bruce says, fury embedded in every word. “What more do you want?”

“Nothing! I don’t want anything from you,” Jason hollers back. “I killed Joker my own fucking self! That was all I ever needed, and I don’t need it anymore. I’m finished. You should be fucking _ecstatic_.”

Bruce opens his mouth and Dick jumps in. “Bruce found you attempting suicide after you killed him, Jason. We just want to make sure you’re more stable before—”

“I heard you the first hundred times, Dick,” Jason rounds on him remarkably well for a person unable to move. “And I’m telling you, I’m fine. It was just a reaction, and he’s gone, and I’m _fine_. So you can let me go, and not worry about sullying your precious consciences.”

“You said you were unnecessary,” Bruce says, voice hard. “You said—”

“I know what I said, okay? I was in shock. I don’t know if you realize this, but being around your murderer really fucks you up.”

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that you had a gun—”

“ _Excuse_? My actions don’t need excusing, you colossal—”

“Shut _up_ ,” Dick yells, hoping to shock them into silence.

Doesn't work.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Dick, you’re the ones who kidnapped me.” Jason turns his unimpressed glare on both of them.

“And you’re the one who tried to put a goddamn bullet through your skull, so pardon me if I’m not willing to accept that your mental state is perfectly healthy.”

“And _that_ is quite enough of that, I think.”

Bruce and Dick snap to attention, and even Jason stiffens under his bindings, sucking in a sharp breath.

Alfred is standing at the bottom of the stairs wearing an expression of supreme displeasure.

“Master Bruce. Master Dick. I suggest you change. Dinner is served.”

Dick mutters “Sorry, Alfred,” and escapes into the locker room. Bruce follows shortly after, and Jason can’t even enjoy seeing Bruce so thoroughly cowed because he’s trying desperately to sink into the cot before Alfred’s eyes fall on him.

He doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, doesn’t even realize what he’s done until a shadow blocks out what little light was passing through his closed lids.

“Master Jason?”

Jason opens his eyes and grins. “Hey, Alfred. How ya doin’?”

Alfred looks at him severely. “I was doing much better before I found out what you’d done.”

Jason’s breath catches. He’d expected it, of course, but Alfred’s censure still cuts him deeply. “I don’t regret it,” he growls. “He deserved to die. He was gonna hurt more people and I stopped him and I don’t regret it no matter _what_ you think.” His eyes are shut by the end of the tirade and he feels ill, but he’s glad he said it. Not even Alfred can make him believe mass murderers should be allowed to live after all the evil they’ve done.

“I assure you, Master Jason, I do not regret the Joker’s death.”

Jason blinks.

Again.

“What?”

“I certainly wish you had not done the deed. I know, far better than Master Bruce, how taking a life weighs on the soul. That you had to breathe the same air as the man who,” Alfred pauses, visibly struggling. He rallies. “Who killed you is appalling. You should never have been put in that situation. It is a great weight off my mind that the Joker is no more. But you should never have had to do it.”

“Well, it’s not like Bruce was gonna do it.”

“No. And neither should he have. It was not his responsibility. Nor was it yours.”

Jason scowls, but he doesn’t argue. No good ever comes of arguing with Alfred. Instead, Jason swallows, and tries to make sense of the rest of it. He goes to shake his head, clear his thoughts, but the restraints keep him in place. “So...what are you mad about?”

“Master Jason.” Alfred sounds stoic as ever, and Jason is struggling to assign possible emotions to him when he continues. “You tried to take your own life.”

Jason pauses. “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ indeed, Master Jason. Not only did you endure a highly traumatic event and then attempt suicide, you hardly even consider that losing you— _again—_ would devastate your family.”

“You survived just fine last time,” Jason mutters reflexively, then promptly wishes he could snatch the words out of the air. “I’m sorry.”

“No, Master Jason,” Alfred says, moving towards him and—to Jason’s shock—undoing the restraints. “We did not. Master Bruce in particular. You’ve been back with us for over a year now. Surely you’ve noticed the changes.”

The last strap snaps open and Jason shoots to his feet immediately. The awful churning in his gut subsides as he clenches and unclenches his fists. Jason turns to Alfred. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“You have every right to be angry, my dear boy. But don’t think— _n_ _e_ _ver_ think—that your loss meant nothing. It very nearly killed us.”

“But it _did_ kill _me_ ,” Jason whispers, swiping angrily at the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Yes,” Alfred says, quietly. He pulls gently on Jason’s wrists, and Jason goes willingly. For all Alfred’s vaunted stoicism, he’s learned much in the years since he was raising Master Bruce. He reaches up and wraps his arms around Jason, and his grandchild buries his face in Alfred’s shoulder and cries.

Alfred holds him until the tears subside, then steers him to sit on the cot. Jason stiffens, but when Alfred makes no move toward the restraints he relaxes again.

Or, rather, he relaxes slightly. The ever present tension in his shoulders has only dissipated slightly with the departure of Masters Bruce and Dick.

“Master Jason. Please be honest with me.”

Jason nods, eyes fixed on the ground.

“Are you—that is, do you plan on taking your own life?”

Jason’s head pulls up and he looks him directly in the eyes. “No, Alfred, I swear. It was—it was just a stupid mistake. I was caught up, is all.” He looks away again. “Besides, hell spat me back out last time. I doubt it’ll take me back.”

“I assure you, Master Jason, I have never been more grateful than when _heaven_ returned you to us, but I'm quite certain it was neither an accident nor a failure on your part.”

Jason’s lip quivers, and he pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Mater Jason, you are not a ghost. Your life is not dependent on the Joker. You were given back to us, Master Jason, but not to accomplish anything. You—you need do nothing, sir. Simply...come back to us. Be with your family.”

Jason clenches his jaw. He’d like nothing more than to tell him to piss off, and had it been anyone else, he would have.

But this is _Alfred_.

Alfred, who’s never, _ever_ given up on him.

Just for that, Jason would do anything for him.

But not now.

“I can’t.”

Alfred closes his eyes.

“Not yet,” Jason continues, nearly choking on the words. “Too much has changed. I’m not...I’m not his son anymore.”

“You’re wrong, Master Jason,” Alfred says quietly. “You are his son. You are our family, and you always will be. No matter that we disapprove of your actions. We love you. Please remember that.”

Jason studies him for a long moment. Then he nods. “I’ll remember that you do.”

Alfred drops his head. He moves to Batcomputer and presses a few keys. “You’re free to go, sir.” Just as Jason passes by him, he reaches out and grabs his arm. “You will keep in touch, sir?”

It sounds like a question.

It’s not.

“You got it, Alfred.” Jason walks away. Alfred closes his eyes.

And suddenly, he’s engulfed in a pair of strong arms. “I love you, Alfie. Take care.”

Then he turns and strides away, purpose and vitality in his posture, and he disappears.

Alfred smiles.

His grandson will be alright. He’s sure of it.

And perhaps, he hopes, so will the others.

One day.


End file.
